Dr. Joseph was considered one of the finest psychiatrists of his era—a man whose prestigious reputation had been forged through two decades of confronting some of the most disturbed and intricate minds imaginable. Hundreds of strange cases had passed through his clinic, to the point where conditions like mixed depression and hallucinations—once rare and alarming—had become the most routine, barely faint ripples in the vast ocean of human psychological turmoil. In those times, the world suffered from one problem above all others: the fractured human psyche.
Machines now performed most occupations. Humanity no longer needed work to survive. Every individual faced only two paths:
Either pursue excellence and earn a position of influence and power, or live in effortless comfort—housing, food, entertainment, and all basic needs provided without lifting a finger.
Yet despite this dramatic shift in life itself, Joseph and his colleagues remained busier than ever. Psychiatry had become one of the most sought-after professions, even though recovery rates remained frustratingly low… only two patients out of every thirty.
On this particular day, Joseph was awaiting a case unlike any he had seen before. He was about to meet the son of a former colleague—someone whose memory still rested tenderly in his heart, even ten years after her passing.
The fifteen-year-old boy entered the room and settled onto the couch across from him. The moment Joseph saw him, a warm pressure gathered in his chest. The resemblance was unmistakable—his mother's features imprinted clearly upon his face: the wide black eyes, the gentle expression, even the quiet, composed manner in which he sat.
The boy's father had brought him out of concern for his weak social engagement, hoping to rule out social anxiety.
Joseph greeted him softly.
"Hello. How are you? Please—take your time. If sitting feels uncomfortable, you may lie down instead."
The boy—known by the nickname Black Hole—responded,
"I'm fine… thank you," then reclined without the slightest sign of concern.
Joseph smiled faintly.
"Tell me a bit about yourself. Your daily routine—anything you'd like to share."
Indifference settled across Black's face as he replied,
"Nothing interesting. I live like anyone else. I sleep, wake up, go to school. I play games. I enjoy good stories… that's pretty much it."
Joseph suddenly asked,
"Are you afraid of the dark, Black?"
The boy paused, thinking.
"Not really… not like the people who can't stay in it alone for long. But… I suppose every human has an instinctive fear of the dark in some way."
Joseph leaned forward, his voice dropping to a calm murmur.
"Would you mind if I turned off the lights and we continued in complete darkness?"
It was a method he often relied on—removing all visual distractions to force the patient into a quiet confrontation with himself. Joseph believed that people were most honest when stripped of every external comfort.
Black answered without hesitation,
"I don't mind."
The lights went out. A heavy darkness swallowed the room whole.
"Alright," Joseph said quietly. "Let's continue."
Over the next two hours, the doctor discovered something he had not anticipated. The boy's words were larger than his age—far deeper than his experiences—and more insightful than those of many adults. He did not speak like a socially anxious teenager. He spoke like someone who grasped the underlying structure of the world with startling clarity—an understanding even geniuses struggled to reach—yet he showed none of the existential dread that typically accompanied such depth.
The realization unsettled Joseph… even frightened him a little.
As their conversation neared its end, Joseph let out a long breath.
"Alright… my next question will be the last—and likely the most important—today. I hope you haven't grown bored."
"Not at all," Black replied.
Joseph nodded.
"You're here because your father is concerned about your lack of interaction with others. Even your teachers say you don't make friends at school. So… why don't you try making some?"
Black exhaled softly.
"Alright, doctor. I don't expect you to agree with me, but I'll say it anyway. In the past, people needed strong connections because life was harder if they lived alone. But the world has become easier after all the technological advancements, so making friends isn't necessary anymore. That's why I'm not very interested in having friends. I believe there are other things worth my time. But… if someone wants to be my friend, I won't stop them."
Joseph considered his words.
"You're not entirely wrong, but you're not entirely right either. Let me tell you something familiar: humans are social beings. Having people who share even a small part of their lives is a natural instinct. If someone neglects or suppresses his instincts, wouldn't that cause problems? Isn't that why my clinic is so full these days? Believe me… you haven't seen what I've seen here. Friends are like family. Do you understand?"
Black did understand—but not in the way Joseph expected. In truth, he believed he had seen more than Joseph ever would. But he didn't say that.
He simply replied,
"Of course. I understand."
Joseph continued,
"Good. I hope this session has been helpful. You're an exceptionally unique young man—I've never quite met someone like you. I don't think your issue is a real obstacle for someone of your caliber, but it remains an issue that should be addressed. So I hope you try making at least one friend—even an online one. Someone your age… or not. And consider this: you've already begun with me. Speak to me whenever you like. Someone like you is bound to make the world a better place someday. I believe this concludes our session. Anything else you'd like to share?"
Black shook his head.
"No, thank you… nothing more."
"Alright," Joseph said. "You'll receive the schedule for your next session within a week."
The lights returned. Black left the clinic and headed home. But upon arriving, he found something that had been troubling him the entire past week—something that now seemed like an opportunity.
Alright then… let's do what you want, doctor.